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Authors: Bradford Scott

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14

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON
, S
LADE VISITED THE RAILROAD
telegraph office. “Want to send a message, Mr. Slade?” asked the operator who knew him well.

“Yes, and I want you to forget it,” Slade replied. The operator grinned.

“Done forgot it,” he declared. Slade wrote it out and handed it to him.

The operator stared at the name mentioned but offered no comment. The message was addressed to James S. Hogg, the former governor of Texas, Beaumont, Texas.

“There should be an answer in a few hours, if Hogg isn’t gallivanting off somewhere,” Slade told the operator. “Hold it for me.”

“Certain,” replied that worthy.

Late that evening, the return message arrived. It read —

Associate of Tim Billings. Mixed up

in his schemes. Dropped out of sight

a while back.

Slade read the message, tore it into small bits and stowed them in his pocket to burn later. He had learned all he needed to know.

Tim Billings was a political boss, notorious for the questionable deals he managed to put across, but with plenty of influence in certain quarters.

“But I think, Mr. Billings,” Slade apostrophized the non-present boss, “that your field man has gotten completely out of hand. No matter what you have or haven’t done, I don’t believe you would knowingly countenance murder and robbery as side lines. Well, folks who play with pitch are liable to get their fingers sticky.

“And I think that before all is said and done, you may well be eliminated from the political scene for some time to come. Another example, perhaps, of good, indirectly, from evil.”

Still later that evening, while Slade was present, Sheriff Serby had a visitor. Old Sime Judson, owner of the Tumbling J spread, which lay between Charley Arbaugh’s Bar A on the north and Nelson Evers’ Circle C on the south, stormed in, and his temper was anything but angelic. With him was Wimpy Hawkins, the reformed gambler and sleeve-gun artist.

“I’m losing cows!” Judson barked. “I’m losing plenty. Where do they go? How the blankety-blank-blank do I know where they go! Nobody seems to know. But they’re going. Just little bunches at a time, but plenty of bunches.”

Before the sheriff could answer the diatribe, Slade spoke.

“Mr. Judson,” he said, “while you may not be able to state specifically where your stock went, you certainly should have been able to ascertain in which direction they were driven.”

“Well, we did track some of ‘em for a ways,” Judson admitted. “‘Peared to be headin’ sorta south by west. But it’s mighty heavy grass down there and a small bunch don’t make much of a mark. We always lost the tracks in a little while.”

“But how about along the river bank?” Slade persisted. “For a quarter of a mile and more inland from the river the grass is sparse and there are plenty of places where hoof marks would show.”

Judson looked blank. “Never thought of that, but by gosh, you’re right,” he admitted. “But they’d have had to cross Nelson Evers’ holding to get to the river. Looks like they would have been spotted.”

“Not necessarily, especially if the stealing was done at night, which was probably the case,” Slade said. “I recall Mr. Evers saying that so far as cattle were concerned, the Circle S was very nearly depleted, only a few old longhorns roaming about, to which he paid no mind, his intention being to run in improved stock. So there would be no reason for his hands, if they have already joined him, to be riding the range after dark. Nor even in the daytime, for that matter, except to possibly examine waterholes to see if they need digging out, and so forth. At the moment it is an ideal setup, for running wet cows in the direction of the Rio Grande.”

“By gosh, you’re right again,” said Judson. Wimpy squeaked agreement.

Only the sheriff noted that Slade said “in the direction of the Rio Grande,” not
to
the Rio Grande, and wondered a little, but held his peace.

“When we get back to the spread tomorrow, I’ll have the boys scour the river bank and see if they can learn something,” Judson said. “Now I crave nourishment.”

“And a drink,” wailed Wimpy. “Say, Mr. Slade, won’t you show me how you spun my sleeve gun like you did that day out on the trail?” He spatted the little arm against his palm and handed it to Slade.

“Really nothing to it,” the Ranger said. “Done with the wrist and the thumb. Watch closely now.”

He extended the sleeve gun toward Wimpy, butt to the front. But as Wimpy reached for it, it spun like an arc of light and the twin black muzzles glared at Wimpy.

“I see,” squealed Wimpy. “Now I can do it; let’s have it.”

He took the gun, held it as Slade directed, his muscles tensed.

“Don’t cock it!” Slade roared, but too late.

There was a wild scattering as Wimpy spun the derringer. It spun, all right, but missed Wimpy’s hand by a foot to hit the floor.

“Bang!”
said the derringer, jumping back with a recoil like a living thing.

“You loco horned toad!” howled Judson, shaking his fist in Wimpy’s face. “You ain’t fit to be trusted with a kid’s cap pistol! Put that thing in your pocket and keep it there. Don’t let me see you take it out!”

“But I spun her!” Wimpy squawked triumphantly. “She’s got a hair trigger, but I spun her!”

“And I’d oughta spun you through the window!” snorted Judson. “Come on, let’s go eat. You fellers coming along?”

Intercepting a glance from Slade, the sheriff spoke.

“We’ll be along a little later. Expect a message any minute from Doc McChesney, saying when he wants to hold an inquest on that carcass we packed in last night.”

“Okay,” said Judson, “be seeing you.”

When the door was closed, Serby turned expectantly to Slade.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked.

“I think,” the Ranger replied, “that a smart gentleman made a slip that may well cost him dear. That is, if things work out as I hope them to.”

“Ready to mention who the
gentleman
is?” Serby asked.

“Yes,” Slade answered. “I figure it’s time for you to know. Nelson Evers.”

The sheriff stared. “Nelson Evers!” he stuttered. “What in blazes! I figured you were keepin’ an eye on Gregory Cole.”

“Gregory Cole,” Slade replied, “is just a harmless old moneylender, with apparently a grouch on the world. Even were he dishonest, which he isn’t, at least not according to his own code of ethics, he hasn’t the brains, imagination, energy, or personality to concoct such a scheme as the hellion, with able assistance from others, is trying to put into effect here. I telegraphed Jim Hogg, giving Evers’ name, which happens to be his real one, and a description. Hogg replied that he was an associate of Tim Billings over to the capital, a shrewd and adroit political boss of dubious reputation who has influence. It is possible that Billings first hit on the idea, although I doubt if we will be able to prove it, unless we manage to take Evers alive and he talks to save his own neck. Nobody has ever been able to prove anything against Tim Billings. Evers is his field man and, I would say, has gone far beyond anything Billings had in mind. He’s utterly ruthless.

“I’ll admit I wondered a little about Cole in the beginning, especially after seeing him hurrying away from the wharfs right after the rukus between those two riverfront gangs, Texans and Mexicans, both admitting that the row was instigated by a tall man with a black beard. But he just didn’t fit the picture right; he was too transparent in his dislikes and his grudges. Evers was just the opposite.”

“When did you first get a real notion about Evers?” Serby asked.

“I first got to thinking about him when he visited the office for a look at the bodies of those two wideloopers who tried to run off Arbaugh’s cows,” Slade replied. “He didn’t even glance at their faces but carefully examined their wounds. Trying to learn if they possibly lived long enough to talk a little before cashing in. When he saw that they couldn’t possibly have, his relief was apparent. That set me wondering about
Senor
Evers. Why should he be so interested? Then it was one little thing after another. He was always around just before something happened, and so forth. Of course he cinched the case against himself when he tried to have Carlos Gomez killed last night.”

“How was that?” asked the sheriff.

“So far as I was able to learn, Evers was the only person aside from Pablo, Guffy, you, and myself who knew Gomez intended to visit the site of the packing house,” Slade explained. “And right after you mentioned in Roony’s place what Gomez planned to do, he got up and left. It was too darn pat to be put down to just coincidence. So I sent my message to Jim Hogg, and his reply told me all I needed to know.

“Incidentally, Evers’ cock-and-bull yarn about his horse falling and hurting his leg strengthened my belief that Evers was the hellion I needed to keep an eye on. I was positive that I nicked one of the stage robbers, the one with the black beard. In the leg, I figured, from the way he limped to his horse. See?”

“Yes, I see,” the sheriff replied wearily. “But the way you tie things up and make each little piece fit together to make the picture is beyond me.”

“Training,” Slade smiled. “The Rangers teach you such things.”

“Uh-huh, but not everybody can swallow all the teaching and come up with the right answer.”

Which, Slade thought, was about as neatly scrambled a sentence as he had ever listened to. However, he “got” what the sheriff meant.

“And now what?” Serby asked.

“Now we can only await developments and hope for the best,”
El Halcón
answered. “So far, I haven’t a thing on the devil that would stand up in court, especially against the kind of lawyers Tim Billings would be able to provide. In the meanwhile, I’m looking forward to what Sime Judson’s hands will learn when they comb the Rio Grande River bank down to the south. Tell you about that later, after they report their findings. Judson will ride to town and tell us.”

“And then?”

“And then I’ll do a little investigating of my own.”

The sheriff nodded, and asked no questions, knowing it would be but a waste of time.

At that moment the messenger arrived with word that Doc McChesney, the coroner, planned to hold the inquest on the dead drygulcher early the following afternoon.

“Carlos Gomez said he’d come over and testify,” observed Serby. “I’ll send him word. Let’s go eat.”

The inquest, incidentally, absolved Slade of blame and congratulated him on a good chore.

15

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, S
IME
J
UDSON WAS BACK IN THE OFFICE,
and his temper had not improved.

“I’m still losin’ ‘em,” he declared. “Another small bunch from around a waterhole last night. Nelson Evers rode up to the casa and asked if there was anything anybody could do to help. I told him there didn’t seem to be anything anybody could do. That we were guarding the bunches that fed down to the south. He thought that was a good notion and said some of his hands had arrived and that he’d have two or three of ‘em sorta patrol that section, too. Nice of him.”

“Very nice,” Slade agreed, with a sarcasm that was lost on Judson.

“How about the river bank I told you to comb?” he asked.

“We combed it,” growled Judson. “For miles in both directions, and never found a hoof mark. No cows stray down that way, of course, because the grass isn’t good, and a bunch being driven across to the river would sure have left some marks. I’m beginning to wonder if the hellions don’t circle around and head for the New Mexico Line, though Charley Arbaugh is keeping an eye out there.

“So that’s how things stand,” he concluded. “I’m still losing cows, and I don’t know where they go. You got any notions, Slade?”

“I hope to learn something soon,” was the noncommittal reply. Judson glanced at him, and let it go at that.

• • •

It was well past dark when Walt Slade left El Paso — after making sure he was not followed. Not that it made any particular difference if he was. With Shadow going strong, any tailing horse would soon be left behind. The big black snorted gleefully, and although Slade gave him free rein, he did not slacken his gait. He was heartily weary of being cooped up in a stable and welcomed the chance to stretch his legs.

Slade rode south by slightly east, following the trend of the river. He bypassed Ysleta and Clint and continued on his way. The sky was overcast with a thin veil of cloud. It was a night of misty moonlight that rendered all things vague and unreal. On his right the river moaned and muttered. To the left was the cultivated land, which after a while was left behind. Now to the left was rangeland, rolling north to New Mexico, and he knew he was skirting the south pastures of the Circle S, Nelson Evers’ unstocked range. He rode on, keeping a sharp eye to his surroundings although he did not really expect any trouble. Best not to take chances, though, for the wideloopers might be on the job and he didn’t hanker to tangle with them at the present. Nothing would be gained other than the possible elimination of one or more of the miscreants — but at the cost of losing his opportunity to learn their mode of operation, which once learned might provide a chance to drop a loop on the entire bunch, including the big he-wolf of the pack.

Mile after mile he rode, until in the far distance to the southeast loomed the rugged wall of the Malone Mountains, with the trail farther north flowing on through a pass between the Quitman’s and the Finlay Range that was like to a suspension bridge in the clouds — the austere gateway to the verdant length of the Middle Valley of the Rio Grande.

But he did not approach the trail, keeping well to the south and close to the river.

After a while, with the moon swinging down the western slant of the sky, he drew near the foothills, those on the north, especially, heavily brush grown and scored by canyons and gorges. Now he slowed Shadow’s pace, for the dawn was not far off. Entering a canyon that looked promising, he came to a spot where grass grew and there was a trickle of water. Dismounting, he flipped out the bit and loosened the cinches, so that the horse could drink and graze in comfort. Spreading his blanket on a soft rock, he lay down and was almost instantly asleep.

Birds were caroling in the thickets when he awoke and the sky was an azure cup brimming with golden light. He yawned, stretched, sprang to his feet and doused his head in the cool waters of the little stream. Feeling much refreshed, he combed his thick black hair and went about the business of spreading some breakfast.

Not knowing how long he might be out, he had stowed plenty of staple provisions in his saddle pouches, along with a helping of oats for Shadow.

Confident that the faint streamer of smoke would not be observed were there anybody around to observe — which he considered unlikely — he kindled a small fire of dry wood and let it burn down to a bed of coals suitable for cooking.

Soon, bacon and eggs were sputtering in a small skillet, coffee bubbling in a little flat bucket. Which, along with a hunk of bread, made an appetizing and satisfying meal for a hungry man.

After eating, he cleaned and stowed the utensils, rolled a cigarette and sitting with his back to a tree, enjoyed a leisurely smoke. Pinching out the butt, he glanced at the sky and remarked to his equine companion —

“Well, it’s full daylight and we’ll see what we can see. Playing another hunch, horse. Rather more than a hunch this time, though, based as it is on some pretty sound evidence and careful brain work.”

Shadow rolled his eyes to Heaven in a gesture that said plain as words —


What
kind of work? Didn’t know it was possible to work with nothing.”

“Shut up!” Slade told him. “
You
took up with me, didn’t you? You spavined cross between a mud turtle and a snail!”

Shadow’s resigned answering snort seemed to say, “Everybody, even a horse, is entitled to one mistake in life.”

Having mutually affronted each other, they got ready for business. Shadow swallowed a final mouthful of oats. Slade tightened the cinches, flipped the bit back into place and mounted.

Riding out of the canyon, he paused for a careful look in every direction. Nowhere were there any signs of life other than the birds and the little creatures that had a right to be there. No sound broke the great hush of the wastelands save the muted gurgle of the not-far-off river and the calls of birds. Slade headed for the river bank and rode slowly upstream, closely scrutinizing the soft ground, and found nothing. Finally he halted, rolled another cigarette and gazed at the tawny flood of the Rio Grande, which here was comparatively shallow.

“Guessed wrong,” he told the horse. “Should have gone the other way. Well, we’ll remedy that.” Turning Shadow’s head he rode back until he was opposite the canyon mouth in which he had slept and ate his breakfast. He curbed Shadow and continued, scanning the ground. Here the river had broadened considerably and was even shallower than farther upstream, an ideal point for crossing, easily negotiated even by heavily fleshed improved stock such as Sime Judson’s.

A half mile of slow going, with the spur of the hills frowning on the north and the eastern wall drawing near, and he hit paydirt.

Scoring the ground was a multitude of hoof prints, along with the marks left by horses’ irons. He pulled his mount to a halt, studied the ground a bit and again glanced across the wide stream. The far bank was brush grown, but he could discern an opening in the growth which undoubtedly marked the beginning of a trail.

“Yep, horse, this is it,” he said. “Hunch paid off. Here is where they swim ‘em across. Very little swimming to do, I’d say, just a few yards of the channel.

“A neat scheme, all right. Run them east and south across Evers’ holding, where there would be hardly any chance of anybody being around to see; they could make the run in the daytime with almost no risk of being detected. Judson, nor any of the cattlemen for that matter, have any reason to suspect Evers and would not have anybody keeping watch over this way. Yes, darn near foolproof. At a specified time, there’d be a buyer across the river, and not far off, to whom delivery would be made. Always a first-rate market for wet cows over there.

“But, horse, I’m just about sure for certain that somewhere not far off is a place where they corral the cows until they have a sizable herd ready to cross. They wouldn’t run them across in little bunches. That would mean risking them being observed. Nor would they cross them in the daytime. Then they would take a real chance of being spotted. Spotted by the
rurales
, the Mexican Mounted Police, who keep a sharp eye out for such operations on their side of the river. And they’re tough hombres to go up against. So they must run them across after nightfall, and that means definitely that they hole up the small bunches somewhere near. And if we can just locate the hole-up spot we may be able to twirl our twine. Well, we’ll go see.”

Hour after hour he combed the hills, to discover nothing of interest. Twice he came upon old cabins built in little clearings, which he approached with caution.

Both, however, proved to be deserted and largely in ruins. There were many such shacks in the hills, he knew, once inhabited by hunters and trappers; for years ago this had been one of the most productive hunting sections of Texas, from which a great volume of valuable pelts were secured.

“And I bet you some old cabin is utilized by the hellions,” he told Shadow. “We’ve contacted such before.”

Most of the canyons and gorges turned out to be shallow boxes, running but a short distance into the hills, although some continued for several miles.

“Like hunting for a particular tick on a sheep’s back,” he growled disgustedly, glancing at the westering sun. Shadow snorted equally disgusted agreement.

But all things come to him who waits, and sometimes to him who doesn’t. An hour later he reached the mouth of a narrow canyon not far from the western terminus of the hill spur. Inside the mouth the ground was soft, and scoring it were many hoof marks, some of them old, some quite fresh.

Slade’s heart leaped exultantly. “Horse,” he said, instinctively lowering his voice, “I believe this is it. Yes, I’m sure it is. Somewhere up this crack we’ll find where they hole up the critters until they have enough to shove across the river. Smart, all right. They don’t run them straight south from the canyon mouth but east over the stony ground, before they turn them toward the river. Almost no chance of anybody riding that far east, even were they some cowhands looking for their lost stock; very likely to give up the search that appeared so barren of results. Yes, I’ll bet you a hatful of oats that’s the way they do it. Okay, we’ll go see what we can find.”

The canyon was heavily brush grown, its walls sheer. A not very promising outlook. But running up the center was the semblance of a trail, with the growth encroaching close on either side. His eyes constantly searching the terrain ahead, he rode up the gorge, very slowly, every sense at hairtrigger alertness. No telling what he might meet around one of the many turns, for the canyon twisted and writhed into the hills like a tortured snake.

Undoubtedly it had been scoured out by the force of a large volume of water which rushed down it to the Rio Grande, the stream following a softer strata that offered the least resistance to its progress during the course of untold ages through a terrain that in the early days was vastly different.

For a mile and more he rode with nothing happening. No sound broke the ghostly silence. He saw nothing of life save the birds which he constantly watched, for more than once their movements had saved him from disaster.

Everything seemed utterly peaceful, but for no good reason on which he could put a finger,
El Halcón
grew uneasy; and conducting such a search, Walt Slade was indeed
El Halcón
, the ever alert Hawk for which he was named, with tense nerves, and eyes that missed nothing — and with ears attuned to the slightest whisper of alien sound.

It was his ears that warned him of possible danger. From somewhere ahead came a sharp crack, as of a dry branch being snapped. How far ahead it was hard to tell, for in the utterly silent canyon with its reverberative walls, such a sound could carry a long ways.

Slade instantly pulled Shadow to a halt and sat listening. The sound was not repeated, but the foreboding that had been afflicting him intensified.

Perhaps fifty yards ahead was one of the many turns, and to Slade’s vivid imagination, the encroaching brush had the look of a crouching monster, waiting, waiting.

So strong was the feeling that he decided that he certainly wouldn’t ride around that bend. He glanced to left and right.

On the right, the growth here was somewhat thinner than average.

“I believe you can make it in, all right,” he breathed to Shadow. “Let’s try.”

Shadow undoubtedly did not particularly favor this adventure with the thorns, but he obediently shouldered his way into the brush until he was out of sight from the trail.

“For the love of Pete, don’t go kicking up a racket,” Slade whispered as he dismounted. Shadow did not promise, but his master had little apprehension on that score; Shadow was a very quiet horse.

On foot, silently as a prowling wolf, Slade eased through the growth, stopping often to peer and listen. His pulses quickened as he neared the ominous bend. He slowed his pace, increased his caution. He was directly opposite the near curve of the turn and a few yards distant from the trail when something whispered past his face so close that his cheek was fanned by the wind of its passing. He caught a glimpse of slaty-gray wheeling through the brush.

It was a catbird, and something had aroused it.

Unlike the bluejay, which would have been raising hell generally, the catbird is silent when something approaches its nest but swoops past with almost touching wing tips.

It might have been his own stealthy approach that set the feathered guardian in motion, but Slade did not think so. Invariably the aroused catbird flies
behind
the intruder, hoping to attract its attention from the nest or the young bird perched helpless on a low branch.

The bird had come from the direction of the trail. Slade glided forward through the rapidly thinning growth. Another moment and he saw the drygulcher; he was standing almost at the edge of the trail, behind a final fringe of brush. He held a gun in his hand, the barrel of which rested on a stout branch and was trained at the bend of the trail.

Slade’s hands dropped to the butts of his Colts; he had the devil settin’!

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